Chiaroscuro
by AnonymousCreep
Summary: or the art student au that no one asked for.


Steve needs coffee.

Sure, it's four in the afternoon and reasonably a little late for coffee-drinking, but he's been going nonstop for almost two days, and he really needs sleep. Coffee will have to do, because this project is not going to finish itself, much as Steve would like it to.

Steve grabs his phone and his wallet from the counter along the studio's wall and pockets them, when his roommate and close friend looks up from his sculpture. "Where're you headed? Calling it a day?" asks Sam. His sculpture looks vaguely like a creature covered in feathers and is mostly sharp angles and lines. He was into that whole abstract thing, where Steve preferred realism. It was his forte, one of his better endeavors.

"Need to wake up," Steve replies, shaking his head. "Been staring at a canvas for two days."

"Watch your six," calls Sam as Steve exits the studio. "Got it," Steve throws over his shoulder, and then he's gone.

Steve takes the long way to the coffee shop a couple of blocks away. the sun is still out, and when he looks up at all the tall buildings he has to shield his eyes with his hand. It's really a beautiful day outside; shame he's had to spend it and every single one over the past week indoors, cooped up in the art studio. He loved what he did, really. He loved being an art student, loved the college, the projects, the people. It was just his scene. He was lucky; he was from Brooklyn, and the art scene there was next to nonexistent. He'd spent his days there painting on old buildings (and had gotten into trouble with the local cops once) and putting pen to paper in sketchbooks.

Here in Manhattan, the art scene was buzzing. Steve just couldn't get enough of it. The people there were so colorful, he could find inspiration in everything and everyone. He didn't feel suffocated here at all, not like he did in Brooklyn. His mother had once told him that his wings were too big for Brooklyn and that one day, he'd break out and spread them for everyone to see.

"We made it, ma," Steve murmurs to the sky. And every morning, he felt like it was true.

When Steve gets to the coffee shop, he finds the front crowded. He'd never been the tallest guy, so in order to get through to the front door, he has to push and shove his way to the front. From there, he goes for the door handle, only to make awkward eye contact with the reason for the overcrowding.

There's a guy sitting on a box in front of the shop strumming on a guitar, humming softly to the tune. He's got dark hair combed back, though its sticking up in a way that's stylishly endearing, and he'd be attractive if it just weren't for the lip ring.

(Steve isn't quite ready for that yet)

Time seems to slow down as they stare at each other, the guy still strumming on the guitar, and Steve staring with his mouth half open, because, wow.

And then the guy is singing. He sings about running away together from the police, being young and drinking the night away, just being full of life and youth. He swears to Steve, the boys in blue won't catch them, no matter what, and for a while, Steve believes him. He believes this guy is singing for him, not to him, not at him, not like he does for everyone else listening. It's meant entirely for Steve and it's a concert for one.

Until someone moves into Steve's line of view and it almost immediately snaps him out of whatever trance the stranger had put him in. The loss of eye contact opens up a tiny pit of disappointment in Steve's chest, like a piece of something that's missing. He figures maybe he can see more of the stranger in the shop through the window.

Steve can hear the stranger's voice from inside the shop, over the buzz of the patrons and whir of the espresso makers. That must mean something, right?

(Steve's either a huge creep or the acoustics in here are amazing)

When Steve moves to the window, he can see the back of the guy's head, bobbing in time to the music he's making. He's got broad shoulders and a sturdy looking build underneath the leather jacket he's wearing, velvety and dark to match his voice. When the song ends, he waits patiently for the applause to end, thanks the people who drop money into the guitar case lying at his feet, then starts up another song. He gets through two more songs, both of varying tempo before the people begin to dissipate, clearing the way from in front of the store.

The guy moves to put his guitar back in the case, and then all Steve can see in the window is himself. His reflection stares back at him, a slight frown on his face. There's a word for what Steve is, he just can't think of it. He has a narrow face and is mostly sharp angles, like Sam's sculpture, and jutting bones. He's skinny, always has been, with pale hair and blue eyes, a little on the short side, and all of his clothes hang off of him just a tiny bit. Girls never paid him much attention, and when they did speak to him it was to tell him they _weren't_ interested in speaking to him. It kind of stung.

What business did he have looking at a guy like that? He was willing to bet he'd get the same reaction from him as he did with girls; there was no chance. Maybe it was just Steve's lack of a love life that was making him this way; yeah, he was willing to chalk it up to that. Once, in the third grade, he'd kissed a girl he thought was cute on the playground, and she'd punched him, and that was the extent of Steve's love life. Pretty much nonexistent.

He's so caught up in his thoughts that he doesn't realize the tapping on the window. He looks up to find a hand moving across the glass, a finger drawing a smiley face across it, and then a pair of blue eyes staring back at him, except this time they aren't his own.

Oh.

Oh shit.

The guy on the other side grins and taps the glass again, tosses Steve a little two fingered salute and a wave.

Steve feels like the floor has dropped out from underneath him. Had he just been caught staring? Oh, God, he'd just been caught staring.

The guy beckons to him from beyond the glass and Steve feels a little like screaming. He doesn't, though, and awkwardly shambles out of the coffee shop. The guy is waiting for him when he steps out into the sunlight, guitar case in one hand, the other stuffed in his pocket. He leans against the wall of the shop in an effortlessly cool way that somehow still manages to make Steve want to scream for one million years.

"You're staring pretty hard through that glass," says the guy, and, whoa, his speaking voice is even better than his singing voice. "I'm surprised I don't have two glaring holes in the back of my head."

"Sorry," Steve mumbles, feeling the tips of his ears and shoulders turn pink. Damn himself for not wearing a shirt with sleeves on it.

"S'okay," the guys shrugs. "I'm used to it."

And, wow, was that narcissistic or what?

Steve raises an eyebrow. "Still," he says. "Sorry about it. My ma raised me better, it's just that…you have a nice voice. You a professional?"

Steve silently, mentally high-fives himself for managing to keep his cool and ask a complete and interesting question at the same time. The guy grants him a smile for his trouble and shakes his head. "Nah. Nah, just a student. This is just a gig to bring in a little extra money."

And then he holds out his hand. "I'm Bucky."

For a moment, Steve blanks. He has no idea what to make of this amazingly cool human being offering him his hand, until a voice in the back of his head shouts, 'shake his hand, you idiot!'

The handshake, when it comes, is jerky and robotic, but Steve congratulates himself on managing some semblance of normality anyway. "Steve."

Bucky smiles. "That's cool. You come here often?"

Steve shakes his head. "Nope. Just needed coffee."

(not anymore)

Bucky nods understandingly. "Pulling an all-nighter?"

"You could say that. Two days is more like it."

Bucky whistles. "Damn. That's rough. Art student? Yeah, you've got paint splatters on your shoes. Looks real cool, man. What are you, MSVA student?"

Steve nods. "Yeah. You?"

"Nah. AMDA. American Musical and Drama Academy. Art was never really my thing," says Bucky.

"Any shows to put on?" asks Steve, and he's honestly surprised he's making normal conversation. "Maybe I'll come see a few, if they're anything like today." The little voice in the back of his head is demanding to know what the hell he's doing asking that kind of question, but Steve is suddenly feeling daring.

Bucky smiles. "No shows just yet, but I'll let you know when I have one, if you keep coming around here."

Steve could explode.

"Yeah," he says, feigning calm. "Yeah, sure."

Bucky nods, still grinning. "Cool. I'll let you get back to your coffee then; gotta go get ready for class tonight. Nice meetin' you though," and Steve swears he can hear some Brooklyn in him. it almost makes him giddy.

"Yeah," he says as Bucky turns to go. "You too."

Steve gets back to the studio in record time.

"Where's the coffee?" asks Sam when he comes in emptyhanded.

Steve smiles, shrugs. "Didn't need it."

He was already wide awake.


End file.
